


The Denny's Cycle 3: Because Inquiring Minds Want to Know

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Series: The Denny's Cycle [3]
Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-02
Updated: 2009-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An investigation goes sideways, leaving Mulder with a broken ankle and Naughty Ideas about how to get his end away even so.  Although I'm fairly certain it isn't phrased that way, since that's British slang.  Whatever, man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Denny's Cycle 3: Because Inquiring Minds Want to Know

**Author's Note:**

> At the time it was originally posted, I said: "This is the last part of the Denny's Cycle, all of which were written in a bit over two weeks. Exploded out of me, you might say. If your next remark was "Yep, and it shows in the prose! What a turkey!" I don't want to know about it. I want to thank everybody who wrote to me to tell me how great I am and how much they liked the stories. It really bolstered my confidence and was certainly more appreciated than the sorts of things people say to me in my daily life."
> 
> I'm sure at least a few people had second thoughts about their enthusiasm later on, but I still appreciate it, 42 billion years later.

** Denny's Cycle III: **   
**Because Inquiring Minds Want To Know**

by Ethan Nelson

Walter Skinner sat forward in his chair and stretched, wearily. It had  
been a long day, so far, which showed no signs of ending or otherwise easing  
up on him in any way. He wasn't displeased, exactly, but he was definitely  
not the epitome of good cheer. The chair in which he sat was not strictly  
_his_,  
first of all. Something terrible had happened to _his_ chair overnight,  
the result of some altercation on the part of the cleaning staff which  
no-one was willing to reveal to him no matter who was the victim of his  
glare. He would have to wait for a replacement, he learned, and until then  
he had a loaner from the clerical staff. It was hard, and low, and it had  
no arm rests. He knew he was being petty. If the worst thing that could  
befall him was the arrival of a lackluster chair, he was doing very well  
indeed.

But that had happened before his temp had made a pass at him. He had  
been innocently looking over some budget projections for the VCU when she  
had entered his office and shut the door with a portentous thud. He had  
had time to do no more than give her an inquiring look when she had crossed  
the room to him and dropped herself into his lap.

Too startled to do much more than open his mouth, he did only that.  
She apparently took it as a signal, and fastened her mouth to his as if  
she meant to extract his fillings. He had detached her from himself with  
a wet smack. And he'd had to _propel_ her, for the love of Christ.

This alone was not enough to turn his day into a fiasco, of course.

That had been achieved with the help of any number of incidents. Agent  
Pendrell was rumored to be suffering from the clap, and Skinner had already  
heard seven names as the possible culprit. Nobody mentioned Scully, to  
his relief. He could only imagine trying to explain that to Mulder.

That was another thing. Mulder.

Walter spent more time with neighborhood cats than he spent with that  
man, taking endless late-night walks to combat this restlessness that had  
settled into him since he and the agent had become involved. If forced  
at gunpoint to tell someone where Mulder was, the best he could do right  
at that moment was to say he figured the man was somewhere in the United  
States. And that was a guess.

Mulder had taken Scully to Louisiana four days before to investigate  
a number of strange deaths among the Cajun community. Walter had not heard  
from him since. God alone knew where they had gotten off to. Only TWA even  
knew if they had actually gone to Louisiana. Give a man like Mulder a credit  
card and a week away from the office and there was no telling what might  
happen.

So he stood, finally, not content to stretch only his back. He reached  
up high, heard something crack and didn't want to know what it was. He  
let out a soft sigh. What with his smoking friend, the bad chicken in the  
cafeteria, being trapped on the elevator for half an hour with an escaped  
mental patient who had apparently eaten garlic for breakfast, exploding  
pens, paper cuts, misdirected phone calls from religious canvassers...  
there wasn't a hell of a lot else that could happen to him now. And not  
much that might surprise him if it did.

He thought for a moment. He could be downsized. The J. Edgar Hoover  
building could collapse into an undetected sinkhole beneath the foundation.  
Bill Gates could buy the government. Hm... at least then they might finally  
get some new computer equipment in the offices... He smiled faintly. Since  
he and Mulder had taken this new step in their "acquaintance," he had been  
with him on a social basis only twice. Even so, Walter was starting to  
think like him.

The next thing he knew he'd be imagining Michael Jackson running for  
president. He was just working out the visuals on that one when his door  
swung open again.

"Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Kim wasn't at her desk."

Walter turned around in time to watch Scully and Mulder shamble into  
his office. Both agents' clothing was liberally coated in grime, blood,  
and something... else. Both looked completely exhausted. The only thing  
that distinguished them was that Scully had a cast on her arm. Mulder's  
was on his leg. Walter felt as though he had been plunged into some kind  
of surreal universe. He stood there, staring at them both, and they carried  
themselves for all the world as if they frequently came to him in this  
state. As if it was second nature to them. Scully was completely composed,  
as usual. Mulder was unusually quiet.

Walter decided to play along. It might, after all, be nothing more than  
a hideous hallucination. "Would you mind very much telling me where the  
hell you two have been all week?"

"Sir, we were in Louisiana. New Orleans."

"The Big Easy," Mulder added.

"Doing what? Celebrating Mardi Gras?"

"Mulder discovered a link between the disappearances. Following a lead  
led us into the bayou after a man called Carl Delacroix, who had been conducting  
experiments on the victims under the guise of gris gris."

"The man makes a hell of a gumbo, sir."

The words came out of him in the same unearthly rasp as his last. Up  
till now Walter had attributed it to a bit of a cold, but it didn't sound  
quite right. "What's wrong with your voice, Agent Mulder?"

He jabbed Scully with an elbow. "It's residual damage to his larynx,  
sir. When Mulder was discovered attempting to free one of Delacroix's captives,  
Mister Delacroix tried to strangle him."

"Of course he did." He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of  
his nose. "Where were you during this little drama, Agent Scully?"

"Stealing a boat, sir."

"Naturally." He could have guessed that one himself, given time. Tell  
me, is the elusive Mister Delacroix also responsible for your broken leg,  
Mulder?"

"That was more of a joint effort, sir."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"Can I get something to drink first, sir?"

"I'll find you something, Mulder," Scully said, getting to her feet.

"Diet Coke?"

"Thanks."

"Not so fast, Agent Scully." She froze, halfway to the door. "I know  
where the vending machines are. You have five minutes, no more, no less."  
Her back was to him, but he could see Mulder's face clearly. He had some  
idea of the look she had given her partner.

"How have you been?" Mulder's baiting expression was gone.

He glared at his lover. "Kim is out with stomach flu."

"Didn't you get a temp?"

"I certainly did. Everything was going splendidly until she slipped  
me the tongue at eleven o'clock this morning."

"Raw animal magnetism," Mulder rasped. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Well, that excuses it. I don't know what I was thinking, asking her  
to leave."

"You're just selfish, is all."

He raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I dole out my affections to everyone  
who asks?"

"_Everyone_? What kind of figure am I looking at, here?"

"You wouldn't share me," he said, confidently.

"Well, I wouldn't have agreed before, but if we're talking about a lot  
of people--"

"Mulder."

"Seriously. I mean, if I'm going to be seeing things like lovestruck  
necrotizing fasciitis patients on the national telethons whose dying wish  
is one night with my one and only..."

"_Mulder_."

"Come on. Wouldn't you like to know you spread a little happiness in  
the world?"

Walter crossed the room to him and tipped his head back. Two sets of  
bruises marked his neck, culminating in one large, angry patch over his  
throat. He frowned, briefly, then gave his lover a nasty smile. "Strangled,  
hey?"

"Yep."

"Are you running around on me?"

Mulder snorted. "Go ahead, Walter. Flay me with my unsavory past. Use  
things I told you in confidence against me. Kick me when I'm down." He  
gave the AD a considering look. "Are you trying to get in touch with your  
feminine side?"

"Keep it up, Mulder. I may succeed where Delacroix failed."

The agent grinned at him, then leaned back in his chair with an agonized  
groan. "Man, I'm flogged," he said.

He looked it. Walter scowled. "Whose blood is that?"

Mulder looked down. "Delacroix's, mostly. I think."

"Not yours?"

"No, no, that's the blood on my _leg._"

"I thought your leg was only broken."

"_Only_ broken, hey?" He pulled back what was left of his slacks  
to reveal a huge white bandage on his thigh. "I think the idea is, if they  
can't kill me, they can at least make sure I never walk again."

"Mulder..."

"Can't go chasing off into the forest in a wheelchair, can I?"

"I don't know," Walter said, absently. "The motorized ones have those  
big tires."

"You sure aren't going to be my sympathetic ear, are you?"

"What the hell were you thinking?" He almost shouted it. "You dump Scully  
to go on getaway vehicle detail while you tackle some dismembering psychopath  
by yourself! What did you have with you, Mulder? Your fucking flashlight?"

"It's a Mag Lite, sir. They're made with titanium."

"This isn't Batman, Mulder! You don't have any armor, and these people  
can't be cured or killed by the end of the issue! We don't send you out  
in pairs so you can make sure to spread the carnage out over the largest  
possible area! Jesus Christ! Did you think about it at all? Did you know  
there wasn't a second man in the bayou waiting for Scully? Did you know  
there wasn't someone else waiting for you?"

"You haven't even read my report yet. How do you know I didn't follow  
bureau procedure to the letter?"

"Sell that bridge to somebody else, Mulder. I've bought enough of your  
bullshit to last me a lifetime."

"I'm all right, Walter. That's what you want to know, isn't it?"

Walter turned his back to the agent, crossed to his window to look outside.  
_Washington  
has the highest murder rate in the country_. _It isn't good enough  
for this man that he could killed at home easily enough. He has to try  
to get himself killed as violently as possible, by someone who can make  
sure the body is never found. At this rate, that person may be me_.  
He sighed. "I didn't know where you were."

"Neither did I, for a while," he smirked. "I can take care of myself."

"I know that." He rubbed his neck, roughly. He was feeling the beginnings  
of what he knew would become a colossal headache. "If I hadn't already  
had the most horrendous day I've seen in years--"

"I'd be dead already."

"So perceptive."

"You ever done it with a guy in a cast?"

Walter spun around, a suitable retort at the ready, at the exact moment  
Scully returned with Mulder's drink. "Diet Coke," she said.

"Thank-you, Scully. You're a good woman."

He shot Walter a look, what he was beginning to see as a Mulder Look,  
flirtatious, mocking, challenging.

"If that's settled," Walter said, "Let's hear your report."  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


Every time he visited Mulder's apartment, he was struck again by how  
perfect it was for the man. Aging, ill-lit, and smelling faintly of mildew  
and not-quite-Pine-Sol, it was exactly the kind of building in which one  
might conduct shady dealings. And clandestine meetings. The kind in which  
octogenarians froze to death by accident and alcoholics fell asleep with  
cigarettes in their mouths, causing tragic gas explosions. The only place  
that might be more suited to Mulder's basic propensity for perversity would  
be a trailer park.

He rapped lightly on Mulder's door, a courtesy, really. He would hear  
it if he was awake. If he was not, Walter didn't want to rouse him. He  
felt an unreasoning pity for Mulder just then, and anyway, experience had  
shown him the agent had a less than effervescent demeanor when awakened  
against his will. He gave Mulder enough time to hobble to the door. This  
did not occur. Finally, he dug out his lock picks and got to work. This  
he had done before, albeit under slightly different circumstances.

He found Mulder laying on his side, stretched into what had to be an  
uncomfortable position, his gun trained on Walter's head as soon as he  
entered the room.

He relaxed immediately. "Thank Christ," he said. "I've seen Girl Scouts  
who could take me in this condition."

Walter picked up the prescription bottle that sat on the coffee table.  
"Scully set you up with the good stuff, eh?"

"Any opportunity to make a fool of me."

"I doubt it. You do a fine job of that yourself."

"Did you mug any bag ladies on your way in, Walter?"

"Slim pickings tonight." He took the gun from Mulder. "You should have  
said something when I knocked."

"What if you'd really been a dismembering psychopath?" He winced, trying  
to pull himself into a sitting position. "Jesus Christ. You'd think I broke  
my damn back."

Walter lifted him by the shoulders, as gently as he could. "It wouldn't  
kill you to accept some help now and again," he said. He sat down next  
to the agent, and let his head fall back against the wall.

"Oh, just let yourself in. I'm weak and helpless."

"And it hasn't improved your attitude." He tugged off his glasses and  
began the arduous process of working away his headache. He rarely did this  
in front of witnesses. People who saw him roughly massaging around his  
eye sockets quietly avoided him for weeks afterward.

"Coffee," said Mulder.

"What?"

"For headaches. I know it sounds wrong, but it works. Coffee, chocolate..."

"Tylenol..."

"Sex..." He smiled invitingly.

Walter swallowed. "Are you still trying to foist me upon some unsuspecting  
leper, or are you just feeling masochistic?"

Mulder heaved a gusty sigh. "You know," he said, "You never give much  
thought to the importance of having two healthy legs until you're in a  
homosexual relationship with a man whose very smile could inspire you to  
the slaughter of innocents."

The AD raised a brow. "As your grandpappy used to say?"

"No, with him it was always Jesus this and Jesus that. He was pretty  
big on the New Testament."

"Who isn't?" Mulder shifted slightly and cupped Walter's head in his  
hands. "What are you doing?"

"Phrenology," he said with a grin. "You still have some unresolved mother  
issues--" Walter tried to pull back. "Hold still. Come on, I was only kidding."

He placed his hands so the heels were at Walter's temples and the thumbs  
rested along his forehead. Gently, he stroked his thumbs back and forth,  
with just the right amount of force. It felt good, but not in the way he'd  
expected. There was nothing sexual in Mulder's touch, nothing leading.  
This was meant to be more therapeutic than flirtatious. He worked his way  
down to Walter's cheekbones and worked the area purposefully, an expression  
of deep intent transforming his features.

"Anything to cop a feel, eh, Mulder?"

His hands stopped. "When was the last time somebody made your _head_  
the focus of a good feel?"

"With the possible exception of my grandmother--"

"Don't go there, Walter. _Please_." He released the AD slowly.  
"Better?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He kissed his lover softly. "It's only right that  
you should be responsible for banishing my headaches, since you're the  
one who creates them, most of the time."

"Do I blame you for authorizing the trip that sent me into the loving  
arms of Carl Delacroix?"

"You hadn't actually said so, no."

"All right."

He paused. "I thought you'd be at my place."

"You have the better TV," he conceded. "But I would have missed the  
ambiance." He squirmed around painfully till he was sprawled along the  
entire length of the sofa, his abused leg hanging off the side, his head  
resting against Walter's thigh. "I know you like playing free and easy  
with the lock picks, Walter, but your building has slightly better security  
than mine."

"You want a key?"

He smirked. "I'd prefer to break in, actually. Lends the affair a little  
intrigue."

"Christ knows it's deadly dull as it is."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Always the soul of discretion." Mulder's eyes were closed, his smile  
almost beatific. Apparently he was content for the moment simply to be  
still, and quiet, and to refrain from harassing Walter about the latest  
hell-fiend he'd heard about or the significance of bananas in some movie  
he'd seen. It was disconcerting, actually. _Must be the painkillers_.

"Walter?"

"What?"

"Have you given any more thought to that cast thing?"

He blinked. "That's what you were thinking about just now?"

"Sure. Why? What were _you_ thinking about?"

"How odd it was that you were quiet. Now I'm sorry it crossed my mind."

"How complicated can it be?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it."

"The only way I can think of, I might cave in your skull in an unguarded  
moment."

"What did I just say?"

The agent sighed. "Why don't we talk about dinner, then?"

"We'll order in."

"That's no good."

"Why not?"

"_Because_, if you coddle me today, you have to coddle me every  
day until the cast comes off."

"Right. How many times have you broken that leg, Mulder?"

"This is the third."

"Yet you managed to survive both breaks previous to this without any  
help."

He got up. Paced. Mulder was a devious man, and his head had been far  
too close to Walter's unfortunately susceptible flesh. And he was fine,  
great, within inches of escape, when he made the mistake of turning around.  
Mulder lay where he'd fallen, his head propped up by a hand now, a lazy,  
taunting smile on his face. Even with the cast and the bandage on his leg,  
he resembled nothing so much as a pin-up boy for the local fireman's calendar.  
His biceps bulged just so, his hips had just the right twist to them, and  
his eyes... Mulder's eyes, always potent, were saying things their master  
would never say. But then, he didn't have to.

"You're a miserable bastard, Mulder." The agent swung his legs over  
the side of the sofa. "Forget it," Walter said. "We're staying here."

"Come on. I'm stir crazy already." He grabbed his crutches and got to  
his feet in a movement that should have been more graceful than it was.

"Are you coming?"

"No."

"That's going to make driving a bitch. I'm kind of woozy."

"Then walk."

Mulder struggled into his jacket, staggering a bit. "I think walking  
is out, too." He headed for the door anyway.

"Goddamn it," Walter muttered, and followed.  
   
   


*** *** ***

  


"As long as we're looking for added excitement in this relationship,  
why don't we start thinking about a decent restaurant?"

"The cuisine starting to get to you, Walter?"

"A man of my advancing years has to start thinking about his heart,"  
he said with grave dignity.

"One foot in the grave," Mulder said.

"Right."

"What are you, forty-five?"

"Forty-seven."

"Hm. I can see why you want to live your life to the fullest. While  
you still can, so to speak."

"Mock me if you have to. I would just rather not make a habit of eating  
things that leave a pool of congealing fat on the plate."

"So try one of the Heart Smart entrees."

He snorted. "A place like this has no business calling anything an entree.  
Any more than it has offering a house wine."

"You're a food snob."

"No I'm not. I'm a sensible man who feels that if I have to look certain  
death in the face, it should be something I couldn't have avoided. Cancer.  
Murder."

"Wayne Newton, live in concert."

"Just eat your..." he glanced at Mulder's plate. "... whatever the hell  
that is, and be quiet." He poked at his salad. "I might like to have a  
decent meal again at some point."

"You could do that. I hardly ever see you outside of work."

"That is exactly my point. This place is a blight on an evening with  
you."

"It's not that bad."

"It sure as hell isn't good. Look at this." He raised his fork, displaying  
a small, potentially lethal object that had been found among the lettuce  
leaves. "What _is_ this?"

Mulder squinted at it. "I... don't know."

"Yeah, well, I'd bet the cook knows what it is. And I'd bet what he  
tells you it is is not what you thought it was."

The agent leaned back in his seat. "What we need," he said, "is a Mulder/Skinner  
dictionary."

"What?"

"What you're saying is that Denny's Family Restaurants are, collectively,  
a festering cesspool from which no good will ever come."

"Right."

"Right. But what you _mean_ is that since we never see each other  
and we have to skulk around like rats when we _do_, the least the  
fates can do is provide you with a good steak and some glazed carrots."

"And those round potatoes," he murmured.

"Yeah, I like those, too." He looked thoughtful. "Washington is a big  
city. We shouldn't have to skip town to find a place that isn't being watched."

"What? No sentimentality?"

He smirked. "They never close," he said, ominously. "We can always come  
back."

"Thank-you. That thought should make my remaining days on earth all  
the sweeter."

"You have to work on your cynicism, Walter."

"That's a pot/kettle situation if I've ever seen one."

"I'll be right back." He stood shakily and lurched toward the bathrooms,  
looking for all the world like his broken leg had something to do with  
his ongoing battle with alcoholism.

Walter eyed the agent's plate. He had some fries left. Only a few of  
them were noticeably discolored. He stole one and bit into it cautiously,  
certain he would encounter a fingernail or an eyeball or some toxic waste.

He didn't feel faint. His vision wasn't blurred. He could still feel  
his feet. Gradually the AD began to consider the possibility that he was  
more biased against Denny's than was absolutely warranted. Not that he  
would ever approach a meal there without _some_ trepidation, but it  
needn't be a night in Auschwitz unless he made it so with a foolhardy menu  
selection.

By the time nothing was left of Mulder's fries but the green ones and  
the ketchup-soaked ones, Walter had begun to wonder where his lover had  
gotten to. There was an emergency exit near the washrooms, for example.  
The kitchen was close by, as well. Maybe he had taken Walter's suggestion  
that they question the cook about the contents of the AD's salad to heart  
and infiltrated the place. Under any other circumstances he would wait  
for Mulder to return. But the man was not exactly agile at the moment.  
He might have slipped on some soap and fallen face down in a urinal.

Walter rose and headed for the men's room, his stride purposeful. The  
place was deserted.

"Mulder?"

"I can't believe it took you this long to come and check on me. What  
if I'd collapsed?" The widest stall door swung open and he poked his head  
out. "Come here and have a look at this."

"I don't think so."

"Come on." He grabbed Walter's arm and pulled. "What do you think?"

Mulder stood in the handicapped-access stall, which was easily at least  
three times the size of the others. Equipped with long bars positioned  
for the use of every possible needy person, it was immediately apparent  
why the stall had captured Mulder's attention.

"You are a sick, sick man, Mulder." The agent reached behind Walter  
and pulled the door closed, locking it.

"Absolutely not."

"It's perfect. You know it is."

"What do you want to do for the next six weeks, Mulder? Screw me in  
every handicapped bathroom in the greater DC area?"

The agent flattened himself against the wall and pulled Walter in.

Against everything he was, against inhibition, against _reason_,  
Walter let him. Let him pull his hips flush with Mulder's, let him suck  
his earlobe so persuasively... _oh Christ this is twisted_.  
Mulder had Walter's pants open and his hands inside, stroking his cock  
expertly, all traces of wooziness gone.

"What's the strangest place you ever did it, Walter?"

He thought, as best he could, under the circumstances. "It was the first  
time I ever had sex with a man," he said, his hands roaming Mulder's chest.  
He brought his lips close enough that he could feel the heat of the agent's  
own, but he didn't finish the kiss. "I was still a field agent, then. My  
partner and I were taken captive and locked in a box car headed for Toronto."  
He did kiss Mulder then, a long, wet, sensual kiss, sucking the agent's  
tongue and plundering his mouth with his own. Mulder moaned.

"We should trade places. I don't want to strain your leg."

"The hell with my leg." Walter's pants fell to his knees, and Mulder  
kneaded his ass.

"What about you?" the AD said, sliding down to kneel before him.

"What?"

Walter tugged at the waistband of Mulder's boxers. The agent sighed  
happily at the feel of the silk sliding down his body. "Your strangest  
sexual encounter."

"When I was still a profiler, I met this woman, she was-- ohh, God..."  
he moaned. Walter sucked and the agent's cock slid deeper into his mouth.  
Mulder began to thrust back and forth, his eyes tightly shut, head thrown  
back. Walter fondled his balls before pulling away.

"You want me to stop?"

"No... please..."

"Don't beg. It's demeaning. Just keep talking. _Quietly_."

"They didn't show us this one in Debate Club."

"I was president of mine."

"I believe you."

He hovered over Mulder's cock. "You were a profiler, she was..."

"Psychic. Not one of those two-bit palm readers, either. She could read  
thoughts, from five hundred miles-- Christ! Oh..."

Walter raked his teeth alone Mulder's length, nipping gently at the  
head. "Keep talking."

He took a breath. "Away. Five hundred... miles... Walter..."

"Mulder..."

"Give me a break! Oh..."

"Your choice, Mulder."

"She knew what I liked," he gasped. "I never had... to tell her. She  
knew just how to do it... too... God..." Walter released him again. "I  
was talking."

"I know. But I didn't ask you who the strangest person was."

"That's lucky. I'd probably have picked you."

"Watch it."

"Don't stop. I'll talk." The AD sucked at Mulder's head, mercilessly.  
"Oh... it was at a psychic... fair... in the Village... _Walter_..."

"Go on."

"Shit... she had a long... table... for her exhibition... the tablecloth  
was long enough to touch... the floor..."

Walter let him go again and stood. "You had sex under a table in the  
middle of a psychic fair?"

His eyes were glassy. "Yeah."

Walter smirked. "Why didn't you just say so?" He kissed Mulder hotly.  
"What are we going to do if an honest-to-God handicapped man comes in?"

"If you stop now, I'm going to kill myself."

"I may not have a choice. I don't wander around the city with tubes  
of lubricant on my person."

Mulder grinned. "I guess that makes _me_ the strangest person _you've_

ever had sex with." He fumbled around inside his jacket until he found  
it.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"Fantasized, hoped, but never planned. Here." He handed the tube to  
Walter.

"You wouldn't rather..."

"I don't know if I could. Don't you want to?"

"Oh, I want to."

Mulder gripped the access bar and parted his legs. Walter squeezed some  
lubricant into his hands and slid two fingers into Mulder's ass. The agent  
pushed against his hand, moaning.

"Shh..." he began thrusting his fingers in and out, slowly, savoring  
every twitch, every shiver. His own erection was becoming painful, but  
he only noticed it in an oblique way. Fox Mulder in a flush of passion  
was quite something to behold.

"_Walter_... I'm not _begging_, exactly..."

Walter settled himself behind his lover and began what had to be the  
most agonizing, maddening, intensely pleasurable penetration of his life.  
He knew that as far as the fundamentals went, this was not different from  
either of their previous encounters. Yet whether it was the location, the  
position, or the anticipation, this was not the same at all.

He quickly built up a rhythm his balls slapping lightly against Mulder's,  
his hand stroking Mulder's cock in time with his thrusts. The agent let  
out a throaty cry when Walter bit his neck, but they were beyond caring  
if anyone heard them. All there was was sensation, and a certain sense  
of desperation. Mulder's bracing arm was trembling, almost but not quite  
overtaxed.

"Faster," he urged.

"I'm no psychic."

Walter was fucking him mindlessly now, caught up in the feel of Mulder's  
back, and his ass, in his cries and his muscles tightening around the AD's  
cock as he came hard, nearly heaving himself backward to intensify their  
contact. Mulder threw his head back.

"Jesus Christ!" He staggered badly, and Walter slipped out of him, shooting  
along the wall and Mulder's torso.

"What the hell was that about?" he panted.

Mulder yanked his pants up and careened out of the stall, gun drawn.  
"God damn it!"

Walter arranged himself and stepped out of the stall. "What's going  
on?"

"I saw somebody. When I fell back. Looking down over the top of the  
stall."

The AD felt himself whiten. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing  
he could think of to say had more than one syllable or a Prime Time application.

Mulder raked through his hair. "I haven't told you the good part yet."

"What?"

"I'm not sure, I wasn't paying attention..." he gave Walter a sickly  
smile.

"What?"

"I think he had a camera."


End file.
